


Drawing Lines

by Astray



Series: SMAUG shenanigans [7]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Pining, Pre-Slash, self-inflicted handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tybalt would never admit it, but he finds himself constantly thinking about Mercutio. The man is plaguing his thoughts, even invading his drawings, his flat, his entire life, to the point Tybalt is losing sleep.</p>
<p>A follow-up to <a href="archiveofourown.org/works/4087723">Ton Invitation</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Lines

Drawing had often been a means of escape to Tybalt. When he was little, he would draw his big brother, and Rosaline, and Juliet. And his parents. After his parents passed away, he kept drawing, but then, the only adults that made it to his drawings were his aunt and his uncle. He liked his aunt. She was nice. She reminded him of his mother very much. And so, Tybalt had kept on drawing. He drew through sleepless nights, when he would not go to sleep to watch over Juliet and his cousin. After Valentio was sent away, it had been lonely. He had felt like he was the grown-up. That he had to protect his cousins. And he did. Still he drew. The drawings grew darker. When one of his arts teachers introduced him to charcoal, he used this. Dark drawings, heavy lines – but always sparks of light.

After the Prince had them move in with Juliet's parents, his drawings became lighter again. Black and white still predominated, because he liked how the different hues felt. How soft grey could be – the neck of a bird – or cold – concrete ground through which a single plant reached out for sunlight with vibrant green leaves. His favourite gift from that time was the big box of Caran d'Ache pencils – and of different sorts – his aunt got him for his sixteenth birthday. She had told him that since he was starting anew, he would need new pencils. He still used them years later, making a point of renewing each pencil with which he could not draw anymore. Which generally meant there was no pencil anymore.

Tybalt was now sitting in the empty chapel of the University, sketching the stone-work, the stained-glass, all this with a thin, hard pencil. Meanwhile, he was doing his best to commit all colours and shapes to memory. It was too dark for him to choose well a colour, so he would choose at home, and come back tomorrow, roughly at the same time, to finish. One good thing about the chapel was that it was a place where there was no risk of ever crossing path with the Montagues, or a certain someone he would rather keep away from his life at all cost. If he were honest, he would say that one Montague was different: Benvolio had never done anything to antagonize him, and Tybalt grudgingly respected him for being the voice of reason. Besides, he seemed to take good care of Rosaline. Not saying that he would like to have anything to do with any of them. His phone vibrated in his bag. He did not pick it up – he was in a holy place, after all. Answering the phone was not done.

The chapel was a safe-place to him. During the academic year, but also in summer. Being here, in an environment that bespoke of men's devotion, of a strength that could indeed be divine, even for a man like him. A man who had stopped believing too early to remember what believing was like. In this place, his mind took in centuries of ghostly presence and temporarily erased his worries. He kept working for a while longer, before he packed his tools and got out. He still had some walk before arriving back to his flat. The campus was empty save for some students attending summer school. The sun was setting, and cast a warm light on him as he walked down the paved street. His mind was mercifully blank, if it were not for all the colours that danced before him and that he wanted to commit to paper. It was a nice feeling, too. To have time to draw. Time for himself. His phone vibrated again, and this time, he picked up. It was Rosaline, asking after him. They had gone back to Verona three weeks prior. Time had passed rather fast. They talked for a while – the time for him to get back him, chuck his shoes off, and make himself a coffee.

“Aren't you too bored, Tyb?”

“No. I'm drawing.” And indeed, drawings had invaded his flat. Blank sheets, outlines, watercolours hanging on a thread until they finished drying. The only element in the room that was neatly put together was his pencil boxes. They were carefully arranged, and he made a point of not misplacing his own tools.

“Sounds nice...”

“I have finished the mask you asked me to paint for Juliet. I'll go to her place and hang it before she comes back to Uni.”

“Thank you! You'll send me a picture? Please?”

“... it'll be crappy. The phone quality. And I'm not sure it's good enough.”

“Tyb, one of your paintings hangs in _Zia Barbara_ 's library. Of course it's good enough, silly. I'm sure it's better than that.”

“If you say so.” They spoke for a bit more, and he hung up, not after the umpteenth reassurance from Rosaline that his painting must be awesome, and that was final. Truth be told, he was not too worried.

Tybalt drank his coffee slowly, savouring it, before he went to his bag and took out his sketch pad. He brought it to the table, and opened the pencil cases he would need. Looking at the outline, he focused on the colours he remembered and, for once, decided not to wait tomorrow. He proceeded to lightly colour the drawing, starting with the lighter shades, and light areas. It took him a good while to finally be happy with the colouring, and fetch some water and thin brushes. These watercolour pencils were a blessing. While the black-and-white areas remained untouched, and quite tame in comparison, the colours flared to life. The blue was a rich hue, the yellow grew more brilliant... The saints in the stained-glass seemed to come alive. It was then that he noticed. The saint on the right, with his halo of golden hair – a face he knew amongst many others. He did not want to believe it, and yet it was that damned Mercutio della Scala. He was in the set of the mouth, the eyes, and Tybalt would have sworn even the posture was different than what he had anticipated.

He wanted to be angry – and truth be told, he was. But he was also exhausted. It had been going on for days now. When he looked around, bits and pieces of Mercutio mocked him – a face, a hand, a back... Bodies hinted at then discarded. Sketches. It was as though his hand refused to listen to his head. He had been doing his damnedest not to think about that evening. And yet everything was drawing him back to it. He wanted to crumple the drawing and throw it away, but he could not bring himself to do it. For all his anger, he had never destroyed a single drawing or painting. He had seen enough destruction in his own life.

Feeling drained, he decided against doing any more for the day – it was rather late. Though not when you tend to go to bed not before midnight on a good day. However, he was going to bed, and no one could say 'nay'. It took him no time to shower, brush his teeth, and roll around in the sheets. Though to be perfectly honest, the sheets were mostly to keep potential mosquitoes at bay. The summer had been quite warm so far. Relying on tricks to relax, tricks that helped him through his adolescence, Tybalt sank in Orpheus's embrace.

He woke up in a sweat, in the middle of the night. And a name like a curse on his mind, almost on his tongue. He would not say this name aloud. How foolish was he, to believe that Mercutio would stop plaguing him – invading his life, leaving no rest, not even in sleep. He tried to breathe deeply to calm himself, but his heart was still racing. How he hated Mercutio. True, they had not parted on bad terms, but this was ridiculous! One chat did not make up for years and years of fights. And at least one murder attempt on his part. Tybalt clenched his teeth. Summer was lazily rolling by, and one thing was certain, it was that Mercutio would have forgotten everything by the time they met again. He was lost again – echoes of what had gone through his mind then. A savage hope that had torn him apart, and destroyed any possibility to mend.

Anger subsided, but shreds from his dreams clung to him like clawed ghosts. Memories. Memories of how it had started. How it felt to have Mercutio kiss him, touch him – the burn still vivid in his mind even then. How he had craved him – and how his emotions had been on a rollercoaster for the rest of the evening, before coming to a halt, at last. It was stupid – to think about this, to think of longing, and yet, he was certain that should Mercutio come to him, he would bolt. To say nothing of how pathetic it was to dwell on it. He looked to the side, his gaze falling in the dim light on a half-finished portrait. He had meant to draw someone else – he had forgotten who – but it had ended up having Mercutio's features. It was odd – the painting was still sketchy in parts, but it looked more real in the glow of the streetlights. Tybalt got up to close the blinds. He must have been really out of it to forget about these. Complete darkness suited him better.

In the dark, the smallest sound seemed to echo. Everything was closer to you. Tybalt had never been really afraid of the dark – it had helped him keep track of what went around him. It had shielded him from the adults' madness when he was younger. And yet, now the darkness failed to keep his own madness at bay. A madness whose laughter rang in his ears and jarred his thoughts. He trashed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, but he could not sleep. Rest would not come for him, it seemed. He sighed. He had turned in the direction the painting was – how he knew, he had no clue. It was the same kind of knowledge that always had him know when he was lying with his head northwards or not. He could not sleep facing south, for some reason. He could almost hear the mockery, never mind that it was his own brain feeding him nonsense.

He did not realize he was drifting off until he awoke again – another dream, this time weaker, but present anyway. Is this how men were brought to insanity? He could not take it – he needed to sleep, damnit! There was no way Mercutio would keep him awake. None. He shoved the covers away from himself, never mind that the air felt really cold on his sweaty skin. He could not care less. Tybalt found it highly ironical, and slightly off-putting, that he was touching himself thinking about a man who turned his world upside down more often than not. He closed his eyes, though there was no difference from the pitch black room that surrounded him. He wish he could stop his ears and not hear any of the sounds that he was making. He bit his lips, although his hand moved faster, finding a proper pace. He should not have closed his eyes. His thoughts kept straying to that night, and lost in this world of fantasies, he fancied that Mercutio could be here as well. That it was Mercutio's hand, not his, that he was feeling. That somehow, his breathlessness owed more to a lover's kisses than to desperation.

The illusion came crashing down with his climax, and he was back to the emptiness of his room. A cold emptiness. Strings tied to his heart pulled it apart, and it was painful. He felt dejected – mostly with himself. It did not help that he still did not know what to make of it all. And how idiotic could it be, to think a damn handjob could solve anything? He was not a teenager any longer! Although the exhaustion he now felt was a welcome one, and really in this moment, he could not care less for the sheets. He curled on the other side of the bed, the cooler side, waiting for sleep to claim him once more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant as a bridge between the previous fic and another set: don't worry, there be more!


End file.
